


Soldiers In Petticoats

by darthsydious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, victorian!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28432539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthsydious/pseuds/darthsydious
Summary: After the case of the Abominable Bride, Mycroft pulls some strings so that Molly can retain her position at Barts, but this time as the first female pathologist in London. But what will the rest of the world think? Frankly, Molly Hooper couldn't care less, and Sherlock is pleased. Written for Mizjoely
Relationships: mollcroft brotp, sherlolly
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	Soldiers In Petticoats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MizJoely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/gifts).



“My brother sent you this,” Sherlock handed over a cream-colored envelope to Molly. It was still strange to see her in frocks rather than trousers and a waistcoat. Frankly, he rather liked her in the trousers (he could do without the mustache, obviously, but needs must when one is trying to fool most of their colleagues in order to get a job otherwise forbidden to them). Trousers showed off her figure better, and he rather liked the effect a fitted waistcoat and shirtwaist had on her figure. Standing in the doorway of her rented rooms, he waited for her to wave him in.  
“Nice to see you too, Mr. Holmes,” she responded, taking the envelope from him.  
“Sherlock, I told you to call me Sherlock,” he said, stepping in as she moved away from the door. Taking a letter opener from her desk she slit the end of the envelope. Glancing up at Sherlock as she stood by the open window to read.  
“That wouldn’t be appropriate, would it?” she asked, glancing up at him.  
“I don’t know,” he picked up one of her false mustaches from the desk, holding it to his upper lip and quirking an eyebrow. “You tell me.” Rolling her eyes, she turned to read the letter. 

_“Dear Miss Hooper,  
Please come at your earliest convenience to the following address. I have something for you to hear that will most certainly be to your advantage.  
Sincerely,  
Mycroft Holmes  
P.S. One may masquerade all they want at work, but here you will not be fooling anyone. Please come in the attire befitting your sex.,/i>_

_A business card was included in the letter:_

_**Guest of Mycroft Holmes - The Diogenes Club - 10 Carlton House Terrace**  
“Isn’t this a gentleman’s club?” Molly asked, curious, and quite surprised. She knew Sherlock had a brother, knew he was very powerful indeed, but she had no idea how Mycroft Holmes would ever believe she would be allowed in such a facility.  
“As long as you don’t talk until we reach his personal office, there shouldn’t be a problem,” Sherlock answered. “Women are not specifically barred,”  
“They just aren’t allowed to join,” Molly countered. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.  
“Y-e-e-e-s…” he answered slowly, feeling slightly uncomfortable. She sighed, re-reading the note.  
“Well, he says ‘earliest convenience’, I suppose he means now.”  
“That would be the general idea. My brother dislikes time wasted,” Sherlock agreed.  
“Well he’ll have to wait, I’m not going to an all gentleman’s club dressed in this old print.”  
“Miss Hooper-“  
“If I’m to call you Sherlock, you’d better drop the ‘Miss Hooper’ business,” she called over her shoulder, retreating to her bedroom. She poked her heat out of the doorway. “If I’m going to be inappropriate, you might as well be too.” He smirked as she shut the door.  
“I didn’t realize clothes mattered so much to you,” he called. The door was yanked open again to reveal a glaring pathologist. “You know what I mean!” Sherlock said, waving his hand. “You don’t care what people think of-“ he shook his head, realizing that wasn’t any better.  
“I don’t care, not as much as most do,” she said, shutting the door, closing off his view again (pity). “But I do want to look smart when I’m about to be reprimanded by one of the most powerful men in the country.” The door opened in a few moments. She wore a smart grey and blue walking suit. She had obviously been spending her money on the current men’s wear for work, as Sherlock noted it this gown was almost two years old. Still, she looked much more herself, and she carried herself with a good deal of confidence.  
“Not a word, I know it’s old, it’s the best I have as far as appropriate things for calling goes,” she said, pinning on her hat.  
“I never said a thing, and besides you look very smart,” he answered.  
“Now,” Molly arranged the dotted veil over her face. “If anyone in the hallways ask, I’m Mr. Hooper’s sister.”  
“And I am?”  
“You’re Sherlock Holmes, you ninny,” she snapped, wriggling her fingers into her gloves. “No one questions who you are, but I need a plausible excuse as to why a woman would be coming and going from a man’s apartments, or else I’ll lose the flat. Women can’t rent a flat by herself in this building.”  
“Hmm, have to do something about that,” Sherlock muttered.  
“Yes, give us more rights,” she replied and headed for the door.  
“Wait,” he hurried after her and offered his arm. “There, makes it more believable.” He pretended not to notice the flush in her cheeks, and she accorded him the same honor.  
Fortunately, the hallway was empty, and they made their exit in all haste down to the sidewalk._

_**The Diogenes Club**  
The foyer was decorated to suit masculine tastes, though she was pleased to see it was not so driven by the male ego as to be decorated with stuffed animal heads and barbaric trophies. As Sherlock had advised, she remained silent. Sherlock signed to the gentleman at the front desk some form of greeting. He turned to Molly, who glanced at Sherlock and mimicked his greeting as best she could. The gentleman smiled, quite genuinely, and she felt pleased. She handed over the business card that had been included in the note, and the man took it, nodding them through. She wanted to ask Sherlock what she’d just said to the man at the desk, obviously some form of sign language, but as he was keeping quiet, she felt she ought to do the same. Sherlock led the way up the staircase and to a set of double doors. He knocked lightly and then opened the door for her, stepping back. She turned with a start, realizing he meant to stay outside the office.  
“You’re not coming?” she whispered, glancing around the empty hall. The front rooms, she understood were the Quiet Rooms, but perhaps the rules downstairs applied in the hallways as well.  
“No,” he nodded her in. “Not to worry.” And he shut the door behind her. _

_The room was all shadows; the curtains were only partially drawn. At a great desk on the far end someone was sitting with their back to her. They faced the wall lined with books, the chair rocked gently, it must have been well-oiled for it did not squeak.  
“Mr. Holmes, I presume,” Molly said at last. The chair stopped rocking, and then the person swiveled it around. She nearly gasped. Sherlock Holmes had led her to believe his brother was a veritable land-mass. The man in the chair could not possibly be Mycroft Holmes. He was lithe-limbed and thin-lipped and did not look at all as if he’d been mashing plum pudding into his gob. He studied her, realized she was staring in surprise, and then rolled his eyes.  
“I see my brother has been telling tall-tales about me again.” He said and stood. “Though I suspect you would stare if I was the size he likes to think I am?”  
“No, but if you were, I’d warn you to stop doing yourself a harm.” Mycroft chuckled, gesturing to the chair before his desk.  
“Please be seated Miss Hooper, or shall I say Doctor Hooper?” she shook her head.  
“My brother is the doctor-“  
“Miss Hooper,” Mycroft broke in, tone warning. “I believe my letter stated already, you may fool your colleagues, but I am hardly considered your peer,” again he nodded to the chair. “Please be seated.” Once she took the chair, he sat as well, folding his hands before him on the desk. “My brother boasts of your proficiency in the morgue,” he said. “Is this work you enjoy?”  
“Very much,” she nodded.  
“Why did you not attend university under your own name, then?” he asked with a shrug. “Why the mystery?”  
“I think you know as well as I that a woman may attend a university for a limited number of positions,” Molly answered. “If I had attended as myself, my role in Bart’s would be much changed, I would be a secretary upstairs, or a filing clerk, or a nurse.”  
“All worthy professions,” Mycroft said agreeably.  
“Yes,” she nodded. “But not what I want to do,” she paused. “No one listens to a female nurse, no one would listen to a female secretary or a clerk.”  
“But a male pathologist,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, eyes twinkling. “Ah, there is the respect, the prestige-“  
“I don’t care about the prestige,” Molly answered with a shake of her head. “I care about being treated like a human being.” Mycroft leaned back slightly, blinking. He nodded, quite serious then.  
“Just so.” He pushed back slightly and reached down to unlock a drawer in the desk. He removed a file and opened it. “Your work is unmatched, Doctor Hooper,” he said. “You have had seventeen papers published in medical journals in the past four years of your residency at St. Bartholomew Hospital,” he glanced at her. “Of which ten are being stored for posterity and future reference by Sir Richard Thorne Thorne.” Molly looked up from her lap, wide-eyed.  
“The Chief Medical Officer.”  
“He is quite impressed with your work, he often receives reports on your findings, and is most anxious to meet you.” She stared at Mycroft Holmes, not quite believing him. He shut the folder, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “You have been quite wise, publishing your works under ‘M. Hooper’,” he continued. “As for your paperwork, your medical degrees, these can all be readdressed to you under your proper name, listing your actual sex, of course,”  
“Mr. Holmes,” Molly stood up quite suddenly, clutching her handbag. “I don’t understand, and I’m not certain I want to-“  
“Please,” he gestured to the chair again. “Let me finish.” Slowly, she sank onto the cushion again. “Your degrees must be reissued to you to make it legal, obviously. I am not suggesting you attend medical school all over again, that would be ridiculous and tedious. You know the information now as well as you did when you graduated. Your skill is not being questioned.”  
“Then why?” Molly asked, flabbergasted. “Why does my paperwork have to be changed? I’ll be discharged, arrested for cross-dressing-“  
“Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft interrupted her, growing quite impatient at her outbursts. “Sir Richard wishes to meet you. I cannot have a cross-dresser in the palace, apologies, but that is the way it must be. Naturally, I am making arrangements for you to retain your position at St. Bartholomew’s, no matter who does not approve of a woman in the morgue. Your work has shed more light on death and the human body in the past four years than most men in the same position have in the past ten years.” He was smiling then, eyes rather merry and sharp as he studied her. “That tells me that we, as a society, must begin making changes.”  
“No one would approve,” she murmured, breathless. Her head was swimming. To be able to work in the capacity he was suggesting, as herself, working above men in a position that demanded respect and human decency. The thought made her giddy.  
“Do you care if other people approve or not?”  
“No,” she shook her head. “I love my work, I want to continue doing what I do, but I won’t be bullied,” she paused. “And I won’t take a decrease in salary either. If I’m to do the work of a man, I should be paid the same as a man. I’ve never given less, and I don’t intend to start.” Mycroft nodded.  
“Nothing will change about the position at Bart’s. People will be told that your ‘brother’ Myron Hooper has been transferred to the north, and you have been hand-selected to take his place. Naturally, we will tell them you’re there as a trial basis, after three weeks’ time, a letter from Sir Richard Thorne Thorne will arrive, stating his approval of your role at St. Bart’s, in which case you will be made a permanent member of the staff.”  
“People will think I’m being given the position,” Molly began.  
“Oh no, Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft shook his head. “You have earned this, most assuredly. The papers you published are in fact, still yours, and will remain in your file for your records. If people don’t like it, they may stuff it.”  
“What about my medical diplomas, my degrees?”  
“As I said they will be made over, all official, all quite legal,” he said. “Your name will be filled out, properly, this time.” Mycroft smiled again at her, leaning forward. “You may at last retire from your trouser-role, Doctor Hooper.” _

_Molly Hooper did not often cry. She didn’t intend to now, in the office of Mycroft Holmes, but she could not hold in a shuddering sigh, or her eyes filling with tears.  
“Excuse me,” she murmured and quickly dug through her purse for her handkerchief, dabbing her eyes. “Truly, is this all for certain? I’m not imagining this?”  
“No, Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft shook his head. “Now,” he stood and went to the pull on the wall. In a few moments an official looking gentleman entered, followed by a man bearing a writing desk. The door was shut behind them. “Gentlemen, may I present Doctor Molly Hooper,” she stood. The first man grasped it, shaking it firmly. “Doctor Hooper may I present the Assistant Medical Officer, Sir William Henry Power,”  
“A pleasure, madam,” the man said. “My secretary, Mr. John Hurst” he gestured to the man holding the writing desk and Molly nodded to him. “I have come to oversee the official documentation; I am sorry for your loss.”  
Mycroft quickly interjected: “I hope I was not too forward in sharing of your personal tragedy. A house fire can be quite a traumatic thing. But I thought you would understand why, as Sir William would have to know why your diplomas must be reissued.”  
“Yes of course, I trust your discretion Mr. Holmes,” Molly answered and turned to the gentleman. “Thank you, Sir William,”  
“Naturally, I wished to meet the first female pathologist who has published so many papers,” Sir William replied. “Your work is tremendous.” He turned to Mr. Hurst. “Shall we then?” _

_There in Mycroft’s office, Molly’s licenses and diplomas (all six of them) were laid out. She folded her hands on her lap to keep herself from twisting her fingers. She watched as Mr. Hurst wrote out her full name ‘Molly Elizabeth Hooper’ on each of the papers, and then Sir William stepped forward and signed his name as well. The space where the CMO’s signature went was already filled by Sir John Thorne Thorne.  
“He was most distressed when he heard of your loss,” Sir William said, affixing his signature to the final paper. “He was also more than happy to send me with the fresh paper work, and has also requested I pass along his message that he is pleased you are unharmed, and that you will continue your work.”  
“Oh,” Molly didn’t know what to say. “I’m honored to receive such attention from the Chief Medical Officer, and I am pleased that he appreciates my findings. In this day and age the medical world is growing, swiftly, we will need all the help we can to properly study it.”  
“Quite so,” Sir William agreed. Mr. Hurst took the paperwork, pressing each with the official CMO seal and stamp of approval. They were then handed over to Mr. Holmes who placed them in a case.  
“They will be framed and hung in your office at St. Bartholomew’s. You will meet with Dr. Stamford on Monday at half-past ten, and begin work on Tuesday,” Mycroft informed her and she nodded. Of course she would have to ‘officially’ meet her employer. She wondered how Stamford would react to a woman in St. Bart’s.  
“Congratulations, Doctor Hooper, St. Bartholomew’s is a very fine hospital.”  
“I…look forward to continuing my brother’s work,” she murmured, flushed.  
“Sir Richard will be in touch,” Sir William said to them both and nodded to Mr. Hurst who picked up the writing desk, following him out.  
Molly stood very still for a moment, not sure of what to do.  
“Now what?” she asked.  
“For now, you’ll go about your afternoon. In a day, Dr. Stamford will receive a copy of your file, and he will in turn send you a notice to meet with him at the aforementioned time,” Mycroft stepped back around his desk, sitting down. “Then, once your position at Bart’s is official, Sir Richard will issue an invitation to meet, probably for tea. You will need an escort to the palace, my brother will do that,” he glanced at her attire. “I trust by then you’ll have something suitable for Buckingham?” She glanced at her dress, then up at Mycroft.  
“Oh, yes,” she gave a small laugh. “Yes of course, I’ll need new clothes won’t I?”  
“I’d stick to wools and linens,” Mycroft said in answer, with a shrug. “Poplin collects lint and wrinkles very easily. Someone will be in touch in regards to your wardrobe.”  
“I am perfectly able to purchase my own clothes, Mr. Holmes I cannot allow-“ he held up a hand. “You’ve already done more than enough-“ but he was shaking his head.  
“Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft was quite serious, a certain warmth in his tone that made her pause. “You have saved my brother several times over, your discretion in regards to his…recreational troubles, shall we say, has not gone unnoticed. What I have done today is a mere trifle to what you have accomplished. Now,” he leaned back in his chair. “My brother is still waiting outside, most likely having heard everything that’s been said, in which case, he’ll do the gentlemanly thing and take you to luncheon.” The door opened and Molly turned, Sherlock stood, hat in his hands.  
“I had already planned on it, brother-dear,” Sherlock replied.  
“Good,” Mycroft swiveled around in his chair, back to his books. “Do remember your manners, Sherlock, Doctor Hooper is not just any lady.”  
“I know,” Sherlock snarled, then offered his arm to her, which she took gladly. She paused at the door.  
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” The chair turned again, and Mycroft regarded it.  
“You are most welcome Doctor Hooper.” _

_Outside in the bright sunshine, they fell in step.  
“So, lunch?” Molly asked. Sherlock quirked a smile, still facing forward.  
“Lunch, supper, breakfast-“  
“Mr. Holmes!”  
“What?” he turned, mock-innocently. He raised his arm, hailing a cab. Helping her up, he climbed in after her, giving the address to a nearby restaurant.  
“Mr. Holmes-“  
“Sherlock,” he corrected.  
“Sherlock,” she amended. “What are your intentions toward me?” He raised an eyebrow, shrugging.  
“I thought that was obvious, but with all that’s happened today I can see as you may be confused. I intend to court you until you decide to marry me.” Her mouth pursed slightly, and Sherlock found himself barely resisting the urge to kiss her.  
“Oh.”  
“Is that not satisfactory?” he asked. She met his gaze then, eyes softened. “Or…perhaps you are not for marriage at all…”  
“Oh no, it isn’t that,” she smiled at her lap. “I never expected to be married, remember I’ve been pretending to be a man for almost four years, and now suddenly I’m – I’m allowed to be myself.”  
“I don’t mind that you’re a suffragette, you know,” Sherlock said, quite suddenly. “I am for women’s rights,”  
“You ought to be,” Molly answered with a smile.  
“So?” Sherlock asked, a hopeful look in his eyes. She took his hand, lacing her fingers in his.  
“I quite like your plan,” she answered. “May I do something shocking?”  
“Certainly,” he nodded. She leaned over then, quickly kissing him on the mouth. For all of three seconds they kissed, and then it was over too soon. He blinked, color rising to his cheeks. “Well,” he cleared his throat. “If you call that shocking.”  
“I’d risk a lot more if we weren’t in public,” she murmured, low. “For now it will have to do.”  
“So,” he settled his arm over her shoulder, drawing her close. “Courtship, marriage, you’ll move to Baker Street, naturally,”  
“Why ‘naturally’?” she asked. He gave her a look.  
“I’ve a townhouse, I’m not moving across town to your dingy little one-bedroom flat with cold water and an outdoor water closet.”  
“Oh, very well,” she flicked the brim of his hat, pretending to be in a huff.  
“If it helps you may decorate it however you please. I think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate another female in the house.”  
“Hmm. If what I’ve heard of her is true, she’d appreciate another sane person in the house,” Molly clarified. Sherlock regarded her skeptically.  
“Said the woman who masqueraded as a man through university and four years of residency at a hospital for a job.”  
“Well,” Molly shrugged. “Needs must.”  
“Do promise me one thing,” Sherlock said after a moment. She looked up at him, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “You won’t throw away your trousers just yet.” She raised an eyebrow. “You have nice legs,” he shrugged. She pushed him then, laughing, unable to contain her shock.  
“Sherlock Holmes!”  
“Besides I may need you to accompany me on a case if Doctor Watson is occupied, and you cannot very well sneak about or clear a fence in that rig,” he said, gesturing to her skirts.  
“You’re working your way towards a smacked bottom,” she chastised and when he didn’t answer, she looked up, only to see his cheeks aflame, eyes nearly glazed over. “Sherlock!” she pinched him and he blinked, sitting forward.  
“I think we’ve ridden enough, shall we walk?” he asked and called up the driver to stop. Helping her out of the carriage, he gave his arm again and she took it.  
“I’ll keep them,” she promised after a moment. “They’ll be useful in the long run, and who knows, maybe someday women will be allowed to wear trousers without shocking the world.”  
“Wouldn’t that be something?” Sherlock murmured. “For now all you suffragettes will have to continue your war in aprons and petticoats.”  
“’War’?” Molly echoed with a laugh. “We aren’t soldiers, you know.”  
“Oh make no mistake,” Sherlock said. “The issue of equality is most certainly a war, and women are the soldiers.”  
“Huh!” Molly grinned. “Soldiers in petticoats, that’s rather good, I should tell Mary.” Sherlock grinned in response, tugging her inside. Despite having known Molly Hooper as she truly was for only a few short weeks, Sherlock Holmes was certain at the moment of two very important facts: there was no one in the world more deserving of her position at Bart’s, and he was certain that they would be married within six months’ time. _

_He was, unfortunately wrong on that last account.  
After all, her work kept her busy. In the end, Sherlock did most of the wedding planning, and quite happily too (it kept him busy in-between cases). In the end, it was eight months to the day that they finally were married, and Molly once again had to meet with Sir William Henry Powell to update her license to practice pathology, this time to place her surname on the license. If a woman running morgue was not shocking enough, now a married woman was running the morgue, and starting a family with a man who had invented his position.  
“It’s funny,” Dr. Stamford said one day to Watson as they passed by the morgue. “Was Dr. Hooper- er, Holmes, a twin?” Watson thought carefully how to answer.  
“I don’t believe so, no,” Watson replied. “She does resemble her brother though, doesn’t she?”  
“Quite so,” Stamford nodded. “Took some getting used to, mind, having a woman here, and a doctor at that,” He rocked on his heels. “Still, world’s changing eh? Whatever happened to Dr. Hooper, anyway? Is he still in the north? We never hear of him.”  
“Oh,” Watson shrugged. “He’s busy I expect. Though he did assist Holmes on a case the other week,” he barely contained his grin. “Saw him at Baker Street, actually.”  
“Did you? Still the same?”  
“Mostly,” Watson answered. “He shaved his mustache off.”  
“Did he?” Stamford was surprised. “Well, it looked silly on him anyway, can’t say I blame him.” He headed upstairs as Watson paused, turning back to see Molly standing in the doorway of the morgue, arms folded across her chest.  
“Did you see your brother, Doctor Holmes?’ Watson dared to ask, grinning cheekily.  
“Of course,” her smile matched his. “Shall I give him a message for you?”  
“Yes,” Watson said. “Tell him I hope he’s feeling better. He seemed quite flushed when I met him at Baker Street,” Molly’s eyes fairly twinkled and he continued. “He looked like he’d been in a scuffle, his shirtwaist wasn’t buttoned properly.”  
“You know how boys are,” she shrugged.  
“I know how women are too,” Watson called over his shoulder and headed upstairs, smiling himself as Molly’s laughter rang out as she shut the door to the morgue. Watson might not have at first approved of a woman pathologist, he might not have approved of Molly pretending to be a man, but he could, in all honesty, say that he was quite proud now to call her his friend. Who knows, perhaps he’d ask Mary a little more on those pamphlets for women’s rights. After all, it was the 19th century. Time would certainly not stand still._


End file.
